


The Sanctity of Humility

by Tat_Tat



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Catharsis, Consensual, Humiliation, Nipple Clamps, Other, Platonic BDSM, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Roughhousing, pressure points, venting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 08:56:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14493399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tat_Tat/pseuds/Tat_Tat
Summary: When she's at her lowest the only person Moira can trust is Gabe.(A spin off one-shot to Ode to Power)





	The Sanctity of Humility

**Author's Note:**

> It's not necessary to read Ode to Power before reading this but it will help put more things into perspective. 
> 
> .

There was an unspoken rule between them, that had been there since they met in junior high, when he had braces and she wore coke bottle glasses. She had been a recent transfer student, teased for her height and accent and he never got along with anyone until he met her.

They were both outcasts and took comfort in each other, even though their interests did not align. He didn’t understand her interest in anatomy and physiology and she didn’t understand what he saw in heavy metal.

But they did understand each other.

And he understood her, even now, decades later, as she asked him to do this.

They had talked about it at length, three days ago when she arrived at his doorstep at two in the morning, soaked through and numb to the cold. Her voice was even then, unnervingly steady as she told him what had happened: her girlfriend had left her, cheated on her with a man and more than that, had outed her to her family and boss. There were leaked pictures of her naked, pictures of her tying women in rope, and pictures of her having sexual intercourse. 

She didn’t know what to tell her family and had left her phone turned off, stuffed in her sock drawer. Her boss was pensive, eerily quiet.

She should be crying, he thought then. She should, but she didn’t. She relayed the events almost as if they had happened to someone else. She was aware of this and asked him to break her.

They were always helping each other.

When they raised the price of his medication and his insurance no longer covered it, Moira had prescribed something cheaper. When the price raised for that too she smuggled drugs out of her office. But to her it wasn’t smuggling, it was what should have been there for him, for everyone to begin with.

“I’m sorry.” She had said, on the subject of her job on the line. “I won’t be able to procure your medication anymore.”

“That’s not important right now.” He said it and meant it, resting a hand on her shoulder. She moved into his gesture of comfort, quiet. He didn’t take her trust in him for granted; the only man that she allowed to touch her. 

That’s why she asked him to break her, because she trusted him. Only him.

She arrived at his house, wearing a gorgeous pinstripe pantsuit. 

It was a shame that he had to rip it apart. As soon as she walked over the threshold and he locked the door behind them he came up behind her, a knife at her throat.

He felt her smile under the palm of his hand, unable to take him seriously, even with the steel pricking skin. A small bead of red rose to the surface. He told her to walk slowly forward, and then he retracted the blade from her throat, brought it to different places. Indiscriminately he dragged the knife through the expensive fabric. That made Moira’s eyes widen and he breath to catch. A complaint started to rise from her throat, he could sense it, but she swallowed it down and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath through her nose.

Her clothes were in tattered strips of silk, cotton, and suede. Her hands were at her sides, head up, poised. She was naked, her personal property, her identity torn from her and yet she still stood, as proud as she could.

He didn't expect this to be easy. In many ways, even though this was supposed to be a favor for her, he felt like she was challenging him. 

And she was, she pried, grimacing in spite of it all, “is that all?”

He made sure she had plenty of room to fall before he kicked her knees in and she toppled over. He didn’t give her a chance to get up, a heavy boot resting firmly on top of her head. 

He waited for her to go still before he removed it, then he crouched down in front of her.

She spat at him.

He slapped her.

Now she began to scowl.

He hit her again, harder and she lunged at him but he had combat training while she had none and he overpowered her easily in a choke hold. 

“Squirm around too much and I’ll squeeze harder.” He used just enough force to prove his point. She relented but glared at him hotly, like a caged animal that was ready to spring on it’s captor. 

“We can do this again and again.” He said. “And it will all be the same.” He left out the part that he found her strong. Maybe he’d tell her that later, during aftercare.

He led her back to the ground and slowly released her from the chokehold. She laid there, yielding to him until he placed his hands on her roughly, clawing and slapping, and punching. She fought back. She bit him. He bit her right back. They scrabbled on the carpet briefly before he subdued her again, this time with her hands behind her back. Her pulse jumped in his grip and he applied more pressure. She gasped, she cursed.

He pulled her by the hair and she called him a bastard.

“Cunt.”

“You irritable twit-”

She was chatty, her words were still precise, bellying the deep well of dignity she possessed. A tough nut to crack indeed

He dug a finger under her armpit and applied pressure to a nerve there. Whatever insult she had been about to sling at him fell in lieu of a startled shout. She tried to move away from him, but he only pressed in deeper.

“Basta. . . cur. . .!”

Then he found her ribcage and dragged his knuckles harshly there.

“Fuck!” She cried. 

He silenced her mouth with the heel of his boot. 

And he pulled her hair again.

Later he’d think it was strange how he had defended her from bullies during junior high only to take this role years later, with her consent.

She was getting rattled, tired out from her efforts of fighting back. He felt confident enough to stand up and he alternated between kicking her and making her taste the bottoms of his boots. His boots were dirty and he forced her to lick the grime off. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, humiliated, disgusted by what she was doing.

Close, but not quite.

He kicked her away again and left the room briefly, returning with a bag of torturous implements. He pulled out a pair of steel nipples clamps that glited off the light. She shook her head, eyes wide but he pursued; she hadn’t used their safe word.

She watched him tug on her nipples and snap the clamps in place, pain spreading her lips uncomfortably wide as she gritted her teeth and bore through it. 

“You think this hurts?” He said, mocking her. “Just wait till I take them off.” This of course she knew, he had heard her say the same thing to her -now- ex-girlfriend. She must have recognized that too, for her face’s contortion relaxed and became despondent and pensive. 

He tugged on the chain between the clamps to right her attention back to him. “You look good like this.” He said, only because he knew she’d hate to hear that.

He slapped her hard on the ass, first with his hands and then a paddle with a razor strop affixed at the end. The implement was harsh, stingy. It bit into skin like a sharp blade and left bright red marks. Moira shuddered, curling into herself and as the blows worsened she recoiled with each raised strike. He kept going, even as she began to cry. He stopped when she finally became a sobbing, trembling mess. 

He stopped and watched her, compassion bleeding into him. He’d only seen her cry one other time before. He wondered if that was the last time she had cried. 

He reached out to her and frowned when she arched back from him.

He let his hands fall to his sides and stepped back. He sat down and allowed her space, then after a few minutes passed he spoke up in the din of her sobbing. He told her she was stronger than this. He started to talk about stories from their childhood, mostly ones about the mistakes he had made that still embarrassed him to this day. He spoke, hoping his voice would come through to her. 

Eventually the crying stopped. Then a weak, sardonic laugh, a laugh he was irritably familiar with. She only laughed like that when it was at his expense. 

He ignored the urge to snap back at her, there was a reason why he never brought up those stories (until now) but she often did. 

“Can I come closer?” He asked.

“Please do and help me up.” He moved cautiously to her, afraid to trigger the apprehension he had created, that she had agreed to.

He helped her to her feet, to the couch.

“I do hope you have an extra set of clothes I can borrow.”

“I have a trenchcoat.” 

“How quant. I shall try not to flash anyone on my way home.”

He took a seat next to her, awkward only because he was still reeling with what he had done. Sensing this, she looked up. 

“How are you feeling?” She asked in her doctor voice.

“Pretty shitty.” He admitted, eyeing the developing bruises all over her and the welts on her calves.

“That makes two of us.” She said, bridging the gap between them. Her embrace was awkward but he accepted it, feeling less of a monster.

She thanked him and that made things better. In the end he felt like the aftercare was more focused on him than it was on her. She didn’t leave until late, when she was sure she had left him better than she found him.

He slipped her an envelope with a giftcard to her favorite shop, to pay for the clothes he had ruined. His coat was short on her but it worked well enough.

They never spoke of it again, but they remembered it deeply as another testament to their deep and storied friendship.


End file.
